


Thank God It's Christmas

by SeaofRhye (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Christmas fic, Crowley Is a Nice Person, Gabriel is a dick, Gen, Mpreg, Protective Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/SeaofRhye
Summary: Aziraphale is carrying the Second Coming, and Crowley's just trying to be supportive. In his way.





	Thank God It's Christmas

“This,” Crowley says in the tone of one who knows what he’s about and could write several books on the subject, “is a bad idea.”

“It’s Christmas,” Aziraphale insists, throwing a ridiculous velvet bag into the backseat of the Bentley. “I volunteered for this months ago, and I can hardly back out now. It’s the principle of the thing.”

Crowley grimaces at the word and casts an eye over Aziraphale’s costume.

“Doesn’t really suit you, angel.”

Aziraphale ignores him, fussing with the garish Father Christmas getup. “I like it. It’s comfy.”

“Also hides the…” Crowley makes a gesture at Aziraphale’s middle. “Abomination.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale reprimands, folding his hands protectively over his stomach. “We talked about this. The Second Coming is not an abomination--”

“I didn’t mean that,” Crowley snaps. “Calm down. I meant no one will notice that someone who appears for all intents and purposes male is also pregnant. Humans are far touchier about that sort of thing.”

“Oh. Yes.” Aziraphale actually looks nervous now. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

Under normal circumstances, Crowley would suggest they forget all about the Father Christmas stint and just go for dinner somewhere. They’ve expanded their repertoire because Aziraphale actually does have to eat for as long as he’s gestating, and there’s a Vietnamese place Crowley’s become quite fond of--

\---but these are not normal circumstances, and the crestfallen look on Aziraphale’s face at missing his chance to lie to dozens of small humans who still believe in a god who disperses presents based on a merit system is simply too much to stand. Either he takes him there now or he watches him sigh all through what was supposed to be a nice, quiet meal. 

“Buckle up,” Crowley says, starting the engine.

“There aren’t any seatbelts.”

“On your left.”

Aziraphale pulls the definitely-not-there-before belt over himself. 

“Thank you.”

Crowley just drives.

***

“It was splendid!” Aziraphale says, getting back in the car and waking Crowley up from a boredom nap, because he’s been parked outside the church for three hours. “You should have seen their faces! I may have miracled a few real presents under that tree they had set up, but you really can’t blame me--”

“Yes, all right, well done,” Crowley grunts, sitting up. “Good job perpetuating a lie that they’ll only discover in a few years and wonder how they could ever have been so stupid as to believe it.”

Aziraphale looks a bit hurt.

“They’re only children. The world is a harsh place for them, and they need this sort of thing.”

“They need an angel in disguise giving them presents and telling them somebody they never see cares about them?” Crowley snarks, then stops when he hears how it sounds. “Well, of course you’d think so.”

Aziraphale smirks. “I’m glad you agree. Now, let’s go to dinner, I’m absolutely dying for some of that lovely pho we had last time.”

“Your wish is my command,” Crowley quips.

***

Despite all the things about Christmas that Crowley can’t appreciate--the emphasis on peace and goodwill, the saccharine recreations of that whole business in Bethlehem, the blessed carol singers--there are plenty of things that he doesn’t mind. For one thing, the way entire families get together to fight around the dinner table warms his heart a bit. For another, the amount of resentment that endless attempts to find “the perfect gift” provide is enough to make him smile, especially when he sees an irate customer throw a fit due to a declined credit card.

And perhaps--just perhaps--the third is that he can always hide in Aziraphale's bookstore until the festivities are over.

Usually, the angel goes all out--seven-foot fir tree decked out in ornaments and tinsel ropes, cheery crackling fire, even that Satan-awful beverage called eggnog that Crowley’s not entirely convinced his side didn’t invent. He’ll have records playing, which is the worst part of all because every time Crowley hears the word “hallelujah” he nearly has a convulsion. 

“Angel!” he calls out, coming in through the door on Christmas Eve. “Turn that bloody racket off and--” He stops three steps into the shop.

There’s no racket. 

There’s no tree, either, or any decorations of any sort. Something’s wrong. 

“Aziraphale?” he calls out again, treading silently through the shop. “Are you here?”

He hears sniffling sounds coming from the office, and slips inside to see Aziraphale bent nearly double in his favorite chair, crying. 

“What’s all this about?” Crowley says, without much sympathy. He’s seen Aziraphale cry over so many things lately that for all he knows, he might have simply sold a book by mistake. 

Aziraphale turns, face mottled, and quickly blinks away his tears. 

“Oh...er, nothing,” he stammers, crumpling up what looks suspiciously like a handkerchief. “Just...Christmas spirit.”

“Christmas spirit doesn’t make you look like that,” Crowley says bluntly. “You really are crap at lying, aren’t you? C’mon, what is it--another eighteenth-century author’s work gone out of print?”

“No!” Aziraphale snaps, eyes re-filling. “If you must know, I...spoke to Gabriel today. Or rather, he visited me.”

Crowley hisses reflexively at the mention of the archangel. 

“What the heaven did he want this time?” he demands. 

“He...he had news. He actually called it ‘tidings of great joy,’” Aziraphale says with a wry twist of his mouth. “It was about the child.”

“You’re not giving birth tonight, are you?” Crowley says with considerable dread. If there’s one thing he doesn’t want to witness, it’s the actual birth of the Second Coming. 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale hastens to reassure him. “It’s not that. It was...more of a reminder that as soon as the birth occurs, I...someone will come to collect her.”

“Her?”

Aziraphale nods. “It’s a girl.”

Crowley rocks back on his heels. “Well, bless me. That’s new.”

“It’s fitting,” Aziraphale says, a bit defensively. “After all, Adam is male. Why shouldn’t they be...well, not opposite, but different genders, at least?”

Crowley considers it, and shrugs. “Well. I don’t suppose she could do a worse job than he did.”

“Yes, but...you see, it won’t be like it was with Adam,” Aziraphale continues. “That’s what Gabriel wanted to make very clear. I won’t be able to find her until the right time. Neither will you, for that matter. She’ll...she’ll be out there in the world being raised by two human parents, and we’ll never know who they are or who she is until…”

He trails off and turns away again, and Crowley finally realizes what all this fuss is about.

“Oh, angel,” he sighs, sitting down across from him. “You love her.”

“I can’t--help it,” Aziraphale hiccoughs. “It’s--it’s my nature.”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says, patting him on the knee. “I know.”

Aziraphale draws a long, shuddering breath and smooths a hand over his belly. 

“At least I have her for another three months,” he says, almost to himself. “She’s here and safe and they can’t take her away yet.”

Crowley keeps his hand on Aziraphale’s knee for a moment longer, just because it seems like the thing to do. All the while, though, he’s thinking. 

“Seems to me,” he says, leaning back in the chair. “That this makes her sort of...Adam’s sister, in a way.”

Aziraphale looks confused. “What?”

“I said, she”--Crowley nods to Aziraphale’s stomach-- “Is sort of like his little sister. They’ll be connected, in a way. I wouldn’t even be surprised if he could...somehow...figure out where she was. If he really wanted to, of course.”

Aziraphale twigs, and his face lights up. 

“Of course,” he says, smiling tremulously. “Of course he could.”

“One of us should probably make a call,” Crowley suggests, looking over at the phone. “You know, just to say Mer--Happy holidays. And share the good news.”

“I think it should be me,” Aziraphale says, eyes shining with triumph. 

***

In under an hour, a phone call is made to Tadfield, a somewhat awkward explanation is given to a very startled twelve-year-old, and an agreement is struck between the three of them that makes Aziraphale cry even more, and Crowley has to hang up the phone before he embarrasses them both.

In slightly over an hour, a tree stands proudly in the middle of the store, nearly bending under the weight of gilt ornaments and tinsel. A fire is crackling ecstatically in the fireplace, and they’ve compromised on the music and are playing Queen records. 

“Thank you for that,” Aziraphale says, pouring a generous amount of brandy into Crowley’s mug of cocoa. “I probably would never have thought to call Adam. All these...hormones make it a bit hard to think clearly sometimes.”

“Oh, don’t blame hormones,” Crowley says dismissively. “That was just panic. Perfectly normal.”

Aziraphale settles back in his chair and rests his cocoa on top of his belly. 

“In any case,” he says. “It was very…clever of you.”

“If you’re trying to say 'kind,' no, it wasn’t,” Crowley snarks. “Having the Antichrist keep an eye on the Second Coming is just common sense. And at least this time, there won’t be any bloody mix-ups.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, with an almost subliminal trace of wistfulness. “No, there won’t be.”

They sit quietly for a moment, and then the song on the record player changes to something more upbeat. 

Aziraphale smiles. “Oh, she likes this one.”

Crowley smirks. “Good taste, at least. Cheers, angel.”

They toast each other as “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” echoes through the bookstore.

**Author's Note:**

> It's July and I wrote a Christmas story. Make of that what you will.


End file.
